A Heart Full of Rain
by Stand In Girl
Summary: "Lavon cradles a lax, plaid-shirted body in his big football hands. He hurries into the waiting room, only minimally hindered by the solid dead weight of Wade Kinsella." Zoe/Wade, S3.


**Title:** A Heart Full of Rain  
**Summary:** "Lavon cradles a lax, plaid-shirted body in his big football hands. He hurries into the waiting room, only minimally hindered by the solid dead weight of Wade Kinsella. " Zoe/Wade.  
**Rating:** T  
**Setting**: Sometime after 3x08.

* * *

_"Have you ever noticed every hurricane  
gets its name from a girl like this?"  
_

* * *

"What's the craziest thing you've ever seen in Bluebell?"

"Hmm." Zoe pauses in counting the little plastic covers for the otoscopes, which are in a neat pile on the front desk. She tacks "56" to the corkboard of her brain and thinks back. "Oh! Once I diagnosed someone with a serious motor neuron disease, but really he had tick paralysis."

Joel stays silent, absorbing that. Then, "_Cool_."

"Yeah. And you know, he got it again the next year."

Joel loops his laptop bag over his shoulder and kisses her cheek. "I don't know why you ever left. Gunshot wounds and knife fights have nothing on tick paralysis."

"And sometimes I even get to run the office," she says with mock excitement.

Joel laughs as he walks toward the exit, and she waves and goes on counting. The door jerks open before Joel can grab the handle, and the giant form of Zoe's best friend fills every inch of available space. He's cradling a lax, plaid-shirted body in his big football hands.

"Oh, my _God_," Zoe says, and knocks over the little plastic covers. All 56 of them clatter to the floor as Joel turns sideways to let Lavon squeeze inside. The mayor hurries into the waiting room, only minimally hindered by the solid dead weight of Wade Kinsella.

"I found him like this," Lavon announces, voice thick with worry. "He was outside the Rammer Jammer with a truck full of boxes—I think they collapsed on him."

"Set him down," Zoe says, feeling like every muscle in her body is contracting and twisting her in on herself, like a spring. Lavon drapes Wade on the couch, and Zoe hurries to sit on the edge of the cushion. Wade doesn't move.

"Hey," Zoe says, her doctor's voice shaky. She taps his face lightly with her open palms. "_Wade_. Come on, can you hear me? Wade!"

His eyes twitch against the wall of his eyelids likes he's watching a movie under there. Finally they raise up. "Doc?"

She immediately shines a light into his eyes, and he flinches back, turning his face into the couch.

"Goddammit, Zoe!" he moans.

"Sensitivity to light," she says. She grabs his chin and forces him to look back at her again, leaning in close enough to feel his heavy breath on her face. His eyes are cloudy and his pupils overly dilated. There's a purpling bruise just brushing the edge of his hairline, and she runs her fingers over the raised skin. He flinches, catching her wrist with his hand.

"Stop _hurting_ me," he says.

"I'm not trying to," she answers. Then, louder, so Lavon and Joel can hear, "I think he has a concussion."

"I'm fine," Wade says, knocking off her hands and trying to sit. His movement puts them too close even for doctor-patient standards, but then he gives up and falls back into the couch.

"Maybe not," he admits, squeezing his eyes shut.

She puts a hand on his chest to keep him from trying to get up again. "Are you feeling dizzy? Is there any ringing in your ears? How's your head feel?"

"Like it can't keep up with your questions," he answers hoarsely. Then, after a pause, he says, "Yes to the first two—and I can't answer the last one because there's a wildfire burning through my brain."

"So, pain," she deduces. She puts her fingers flat against his head, careful to avoid the bump. His skin feels hot. She starts drawing little circles on his forehead, trying to ease the ache he must feel there.

"Zoe?" Joel says, and Zoe jerks her hand away.

"Trying to relieve the pressure," she explains.

"Yeah, but—should he be falling asleep?"

Wade's breathing has evened out, and his eyes lost the crinkled tension of being forcibly closed. She grabs his shoulders and shakes him—too harshly.

"_Doc_," Wade says, reaching for his head.

"You have to stay awake."

"Then let me sit up."

She nods and gets up off the couch to make some room. He shifts into a sitting position, his back bowing outward as he leans his elbows on his knees. He lists sideways again and she, regretfully, shakes him.

"This isn't working!" he exclaims, eyes snapping back open. "Look, that stuff has to get unpacked, and I gotta work the bar later."

"Absolutely not," Zoe says immediately, her voice finally settling into an appropriate doctor tone now that she's giving doctor's orders. "No more Rammer Jammer for you today."

"I have to," he says, sounding clearer and also desperate. "Linley's out of town and we're runnin' low on pretty much every kinda liquor. There's no one else to do it, Doc."

"I'll do it," she says quietly, just to him. Then she looks up at her boyfriend. "I'll do it," she repeats, louder.

"Some of those boxes are bigger than you are," Wade says. He's looking at her the way he does sometimes, like he never wants to look anywhere else.

"I'll help her," Lavon offers. "I'll unpack and she'll bartend. We got this."

"Good," Zoe says, businesslike, avoiding The Look. "That leaves Joel to stay here and make sure you don't pass out."

"I can do that," Joel agrees solemnly.

"Awesome," Wade says. Then he passes out again.

"This'll be fun," Joel mutters, and shakes him awake.

* * *

"You wanna play I Spy?"

"Not remotely."

A pause. "Okay. How about the Rhyme Game? The Synonym Game? Fact or Fiction?"

"None of the above, Shakespeare."

"I could read you my book."

"I already read your book."

Joel looks over at him and Wade can tell he's surprised. In fact, Wade can tell anytime Joel feels anything, even through a concussive haze. If he were any easier to read, he'd be—well, not Shakespeare.

"You have?"

"Yeah," Wade answers, tipping his icepack like a hat. "Wanted to see what Zoe got herself into."

Joel pulls off his glasses and cleans them with the edge of his shirt—a nervous habit, Wade has realized. "And did you like it?"

"I did," Wade says. "You're a real good writer, man."

"This is so weird," Joel says, replacing his thick black frames. "Do you know how weird this is for me?"

"What's that?"

"Being friends with the guy who's in love with my girlfriend."

Wade just about swallows his tongue—which would probably require another doctor's visit. He thinks of many things to say, some of them outraged, all of them denials. In the end he says nothing.

"I guess I can't blame you," Joel continues. "You knew her first. Loved her first."

"How long have you known?"

"Didn't really, until today. That concussion made you sloppy. Her too."

"Hey, nothing's happening if that's what you're thinking," Wade says, his heart thudding in his chest. Joel doesn't _look_ upset, but the topic must certainly be upsetting. Wade's upset and he's not even The Boyfriend. "We're over—we've _been_ over. You're the guy for her. I'm not tryin' to get between that."

Joel stares at him, and Wade forces himself not to fidget—not to seem guilty. It's hard when he remembers how he kissed her in that moment of drug-induced madness. Remembers how even though he was high on anti-anxiety pills, he still knew exactly what he was doing.

"I believe you," Joel says finally, and Wade's shoulders drop the tension they'd been building. He leans his head back against the couch and replaces the icepack. "I was wrong, though, wasn't I? About the Act I guy."

"Maybe," Wade answers.

"You're the Act I guy."

Wade snorts. "I thought writers were supposed to be subtle."

"I thought you read my book."

Wade laughs, but Joel doesn't.

"At least you found a way to keep me awake," Wade says, but still nothing. He sits up and uncovers his eyes to take a good look at the other man. "This isn't going to be something, is it? I'd really hate if this turned into something."

"I've always hated that word. 'Something.' So vague, no specifics."

"I mean, you're not going to talk to her about it, are you?" Joel doesn't answer, and Wade is working up to a good worry. "Look, when she left—I put an offer on the table and leavin' was her way of turning it down. I just don't wanna seem like—like—"

"Like you're still hung up on her?"

"More or less."

"But you are."

"No, I'm not. I don't want Zoe Hart anymore. And she doesn't want me."

Joel looks away, links his hands together. Finally, he nods. "We're friends, so I'll take your word for it. But you should know, I'm trusting you."

Wade swallows. Of all the things Zoe's boyfriend could have done, trusting Wade might be the worst one. "Alright, then."

* * *

Lavon has successfully unpacked all of the boxes, and the new liquor bottles are all sitting up on the bar. It's Zoe's turn to organize, but she's having some trouble.

"Have you ever tended bar before?" Lavon asks as she picks up a bottle of vodka, weighs it in her hands and sets it back down.

"Of course," she says, glancing behind her for available space. There are just so many _bottles_.

"Besides your momma's fancy parties that only serve beer and wine?"

"Well," she answers, picking up the same vodka. "No."

Lavon rolls his eyes heavenward. "The Rammer Jammer is doomed."

"Don't say that!" Zoe says, abandoning her task to glare at him, hands on her hips. "This is important."

"And why is that again? All I been hearing since you got back is how much you don't like Wade Kinsella anymore."

"It's—I—it just _is_."

"Mhm," he murmurs, his voice a world of smug I-Know-Betters.

"Don't start," she says, narrowing her eyes even more until they're just little slits.

"Start what?"

"You know what," she snaps back, holding up her fingers and ticking off the Lavon-isms. "'You're still thinking about Wade, Zoe. You're willing to help Wade because you know how important his bar is to him. You're still in _love_ with him.' Blah, blah, blah."

"Are you?"

"_No_! So stop asking!"

He picks up a napkin from the stack and waves it in front of his face. "Okay, okay. I surrender."

"Good," she says, pushing a short breath through her nose. A flush is starting at the edge of her cheeks, and she has a sudden and fierce longing to take a sip from one of the two-dozen bottles in front of her.

"But you do know how important this bar is to him," he says sagely. The Lavon-ism sounds almost exactly like how Zoe imitated it, right down to the inflection.

"Yeah," she answers, distracting herself by reading the liquor labels again. She figures if she separates them out by type, she'll be able to organize them better on the maze of shelves behind her.

"It's okay to be proud of him, y'know. I am. The Wade Kinsella you met two years ago would never be able to run this place."

She allows herself a small, private smile. "I know."

A crowd of people jostles through the door, and Zoe's heart feels like it's going to jump straight out through her ribcage. Which she knows is medically impossible, but that doesn't stop her from clutching at her chest.

"I'm glad you've had experience," Lavon said. "Because it's showtime."

* * *

Joel and Wade are playing cards when Zoe stumbles in, hair a frizzy cloud around her face and clothes rumpled like she's been in a car accident. Wade cracks up, then winces at the leftover pain in his head.

"I had no idea how hard bartending was," Zoe pants, collapsing into a waiting room chair. "Wade, why didn't you tell me how hard it is? All that time we were—" She stops with an inhaled breath and leans her head back, closing her eyes. "I just mean, you owe me."

"Anything you want, doc," Wade says, still grinning. Then he realizes how that sounds and says hurriedly, "I mean—y'know, a ride or some free wine or—whatever."

"Yeah," Joel says, tossing his cards down. "Well, now that you're back to check on the patient, I'm going home."

"Why don't you wait and I'll come with you?" Zoe asks.

"No, that's okay," Joel answers. "I need some air."

He shrugs on his coat and leaves, and the good atmosphere trails after him like a loyal puppy. Pretty soon the silence between Wade and Zoe is as frosty as Butter Stick's ice-cold iced tea.

"What did you do?" she asks, her voice deceptively quiet.

"_I_ didn't do anything," he retorts, anger already kicking up in his voice, defensiveness knotting his stomach together. "You're the one fawning all over unconscious me, rubbin' my forehead and usin' your worried voice. Then you go off to save the day at my place of business."

"I was taking care of you!" She shoots back, leaping to her feet. "I took an oath to give medical attention to anyone in need, even people as oafish and ridiculous as you!"

He gets up too and walks toward her, so they're standing toe-to-toe in the middle of the waiting room. "Well if I'm so oafish and ridiculous, why does your boyfriend think you're still in love with me?"

"Would everyone _stop saying that_? I'm not—wait, Joel thinks so?" Her eyes go wide and wounded, and he wants to shake her for being the most frustrating woman on earth.

"I don't know what he thinks," Wade says, as calmly as he can manage. "He mostly asked questions."

"And how did you answer those questions?" she demands, like she already knows—like she's so sure Wade took the first opportunity to cannonball between the two of them.

"I told him we're having an affair," he says, just for the satisfaction of it, but all the blood drains from her face and he instantly regrets lying. "No, I didn't. I told him there's nothing going on, and that I'm not tryin' to get in the way of you two. I'm not tryin' to get in the _way_ of you two, Zoe."

"Then how do you end up there anyway?"

"Because you're rubbin' my head and usin' your worried voice, and goin' off to bartend for me. Not everything is my fault."

She laughs then, one of those gallows-humor type laughs—the kind done when nothing is remotely funny and might never be funny again.

"You're right."

He opens his mouth to say something and stops. The times Zoe has said "you're right" to him can be counted on one hand. And that hand can be missing four fingers.

"Damn right I am," he says, mostly to save face.

They're silent for a little while, and it's long enough that Wade starts to realize how light-headed he feels. He backtracks to the couch, raising a hand to his temple, and that's the cue for the wooziness to kick it into high gear. All of a sudden he's not sure which way's up.

"Uh, Doc," he says, and collapses back onto the couch.

"Wade? Wade!" She's by his side, her little form twisting and whirling around him like they're in a river somewhere. "You haven't stood up all day, and I bet you haven't eaten much. All of that's probably combining with the dizziness from the concussion. I'm sorry!"

"For what?" he says, then closes his mouth before the nausea makes him upchuck his breakfast all over her fancy designer shoes.

"Arguing with a patient. It was unprofessional and I—"

"Stop it. I'm not a patient, doc," he says, as another bout of vertigo hits him square in the chest. "But I do need to lie down."

"Here," she says, moving off the couch so he can stretch out. He puts a hand over his eyes and breaths deep. It's kind of nice, all dark and cozy with Zoe's worried breaths somewhere to the right of him. He wishes he could stay like that awhile longer.

"Better?"

"Mmm," he says, not quite an answer.

"I am sorry," she repeats. He senses there's more, so he stays quiet. Her breaths are still quick and sharp. "Not just for arguing with you while you're hurt. I'm sorry I keep blaming you for things. I know how much that can suck."

"I just want you to be happy," he tells her, more open than he meant to be. He goes on anyway. "If you're happy, I don't want to screw that up."

She doesn't respond. After awhile, he peels his hands back from his eyes and looks at her. She's solid now—steady. Not going anywhere. "Zoe?"

"You're a good friend, Wade," she says finally, and he's horrified to see her eyes filling up. "Better than I deserve, after the way I treated you. You know, with the running away and telling you I wasn't coming back in an email and coming back with awesome boyfriend in tow—"

"I don't need the play-by-play," he interrupts. "I remember."

"I just mean, you're a good person," she says. "A good man. A really, really good man."

He's not sure what to say to that. Months of breaking his back to get her to notice him changing, then she did and it didn't matter. She left anyway. A good man, maybe, but not good enough for her—never quite good enough for Zoe Hart. But the thing is, he doesn't care anymore. He likes who he is, likes his bar, likes the person he's become. And a lot of that falls onto this crazy, beautiful woman's shoulders.

"Thank you, doc," he says finally. It's nice to have the person who changed him finally notice. Finally admit it's important. "And thanks for helpin' out today."

"No problem," she says, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Now, come on. Let's get you home."

* * *

_"I got a feelin' by the time the night finds the mornin',  
__ I'm gonna wish I had a storm warnin'..."_


End file.
